


I'll Follow You Into The Dark

by TheHecateA



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23817310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHecateA/pseuds/TheHecateA
Summary: The Archivist sees Basira carving her way through the darkness, following the scent of blood, thinking she is going to kill Daisy. But really Basira knows, and somewhere deep inside Daisy knows, that they have promised each other this a long time ago.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	I'll Follow You Into The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I am literally *screaming* about my poor feral lesbians and I've been processing episode 164 all day. Minor spoilers included here. Enjoy!

# I’ll Follow You Into the Dark

Basira doesn’t really feel like she needs to sleep, but she’s heard enough stories about officers burning out or winding up hospitalized for dehydration or exhaustion that it feels necessary, every now and then, to stop. She doesn’t kick off her boots in case she needs to run again, but she rests her feet and prays and takes off her hijab to splash some water over her face and rebraid her hair.  
She’s never actually slept during these breaks. Her body doesn’t feel the need to, but it would feel improper not to force it into some kind of routine. It would feel too much like giving up and Basira knows that if she gives the world an inch, it will take a mile and she doesn’t have that much left to give.  
She has adopted a walking stick. She found it outside what she thinks was once a town, and it’s been useful. She’s dug it in the ground when the world around her stopped making sense and used it to prod campfires or manifestations and illusions around her to make sure that they weren’t real. Sometimes they were, in which case it was time to draw a gun. But the most useful thing about her walking stick is the engravings she’s made in the knotted wood with a pocket knife.  
..-. .. -. -..  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
The dots and dashes would be nonsense had her grandfather not taught her Morse code when she was little. He’d served in the British Marine during the war and thought that codes were far more useful than they were. She had never expected him to be right.  
When it became too dark or strange or loud or overwhelming, she would clench her walking stick and her fingertips would brush against the engravings. The moment of confusion before she translated the code always seemed to bring her back to this world as much as the message she had left herself.  
_Find  
Daisy_

Daisy leans back in the passenger sheet and puts her feet up on the dashboard, reaching for another chip. It’s the first time she’s let Basira drive their patrol car—usually she likes being in control too much (and, frankly, having an excuse to speed).  
Since it’s their lunch break and the chatter on the radio’s been at a minimal (though neither of them will say so or else they’ll jinx it), Daisy’s even let her hair down from its ponytail, loosened her vest, and unbuttoned her shirt’s top two buttons. They’re parked out of the way, and they can hear the Thames even if they can’t see it. Basira wouldn’t be looking that way even if they could; Daisy is smiling in between mouthfuls of chips, auburn hair tumbling down to frame that smile and the way it lights up that face and rounds out her features.  
Basira has no idea what on Earth they were talking about. When she thinks back on it, the weather wasn’t especially nice and she doubted that they were laughing about something especially funny. But that’s how she always remembers Daisy when it becomes hard to remember who she’s looking for. The why is wrapped up in that memory, self-explanatory, and it chills Basira to her core.

She’s sure that everybody’s wished this, but Basira wishes that she wasn’t alone. She wishes that she wasn’t doing this alone. She’s not trusting enough to be sure that Jonathan or Matin would have a better idea of how to navigate this landscape of fears, but they might.  
Basira’s not sure how Daisy’s navigating all of this in her current form. She knows very little about how Daisy operates when the Hunt is at the helm. She should have asked—she knows she should have asked. She should have prepared for this. Or if not this, since an apocalypse is a tad difficult to prepare for, she should have prepared for a day in which she would have to do more than clean up after Daisy.  
Frankly, Basira isn’t even sure what Daisy _looks_ like now. When she thinks back to the few times she’s seen Daisy hunt, the contours and angles of that form are vague. Basira knows that it’s Daisy-enough to be uncanny. She remembers talons the most, the dimensions of the Hunt’s avatars are unsettling, but the details are hazy. It must be the shock kicking in. That’s what stops most people from being able to give good suspect descriptions.  
Still. Basira can’t help but feel like she’s going in blind and she doesn’t like it at all.  
She still goes, wherever it is she’s going.

When the patrol car slams, Basira jumps even if she’s seen Daisy coming—out of the alley, down the street, and into the McDonald’s parking lot.  
Daisy pauses for a minute, eyeing Basira and trying to make sense of her startle.  
“You done, then?” Basira asks, eager to change the subject.  
“Yeah,” Daisy says. She lowers the sun visor and looks at her reflection in the little mirror there, eyeing the corners of her mouth especially. She puts it back up and leans back into the seat, tilting her head back as Basira pulls out of the parking lot.  
“Shift starts in two hours,” Basira says. “Do you need to shower? I figure we may as well grab something for breakfast and crash in the break room.”  
“I need to shower,” Daisy says.  
“Alright,” Basira says. She makes a left to bring her home.

She is starting to understand why Jonathan Sims has always seemed so disconnected from reality, confused when there was nothing to be confused about, and hesitant even when the path was clear.  
Well, not really. Not that much. She wouldn’t say that they’re kindred spirits. She isn’t an avatar or a god or an entity or whatever class he’s now technically embodying.  
But she does understand, now that she is living in a landscape where the only mountains and rivers are fear and blood, what it is like to be surrounded by fear and anguish and other people’s fear and other people’s anguish day in and day out. Not that Basira doesn’t have her own fears or her own anguish about failing her… not her partner, not her friend, not her lover, her… Daisy.  
She understands now how swimming in fear and drinking fear and breathing fear can change a person. She wonders how much further she can go before she’s too changed to go on.

They don’t dare bring Daisy to a real hospital or clinic or doctor even if she looks like she needs one, and they sure as hell don’t want her in the Archives, so Basira gets Melanie to cooperate and drive them to her flat. Does the Archivist also need medical attention, since he too just emerged from the coffin? Maybe, but Basira doesn’t care at the moment and will leave him at Melanie’s mercy—whatever that looks like today.  
Luckily, Basira hasn’t got any flatmates. She can drag her weakened, emaciated partner up the fire escape and through the kitchen and to her bedroom without ringing any alarms.  
She keeps spooning water into Daisy’s mouth, offering jam and peanut butter so they can bring up her blood sugars without testing what the Buried has done to her stomach. Daisy passed out again in the car, but her sleep here—under Basira’s sheets and in the glow of the night table’s lamp—looks healthier. She even looks… well, peaceful.  
Basira’s faintly aware that the others are in her kitchen, drinking tea and mumbling stories about what’s gone on in the coffin. Basira will want to know and she’ll care more about all of that once Daisy’s in better shape. For now, she’s busy refreshing the cold cloths on Daisy’s forehead.  
She stirs.  
“Ba,” Daisy mumbles. Her stomach drops because she hasn’t heard that stupid, stupid nickname in that stupid, stupid voice for so long.  
“Yeah,” Basira manages to say, her voice unexpectedly raw. “It’s me, Daisy. You’re out of that place, you’re home, you’re safe.”  
“I know,” Daisy mumbled. “That’s why it all hurts.”  
Basira’s hand hesitated but then she reached back to smooth out the cold press on Daisy’s forehead.  
“Do you want me to throw you back in, then?” Basira asks.  
Daisy laughs.

..-. .. -. -..  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
..-. .. -. -..  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
..-. .. -. -..  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
She has no idea which way to go now.  
..-. .. -. -..  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
She knows what she wants to do but that doesn’t mean anything in this world. What’ll happen if she doesn’t figure it out?  
..-. .. -. -..  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
She supposes that Daisy, a simple avatar, can’t do more damage in this world than the world’s already done to itself. But Basira would have broken a promise and that’s nearly worst.  
..-. .. -. -..  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
-.. .- .. ... -.--

Basira swung by Daisy’s flat to collect her softest clothes, her favourite mug, and a few other things she thinks Daisy will want. Daisy hasn’t wanted to ask for anything or be a bother, but still. Basira has her spare key and she figures she may as well use it. She was afraid for so long that she’d have to pack up Daisy’s things and send them to a charity shop or find another place to dump a dead girl’s things. It’s a relief to take this step to make sure Daisy’s comfortable while she stays with her.  
She helps Daisy pull on a sweatshirt from the police academy. The inside is still soft.  
Basira has taken to braiding Daisy’s hair around her head. It suits her, but Basira feels quite bad about it. It’s not a style Daisy had ever worn on her own, just one that Basira chose because it helped her take care of Daisy’s hair and manage it easily enough. Daisy hasn’t said anything about it so far, apart from commenting on how similar they looked since Basira braided her hair down under her hijab every morning.  
She helps Daisy lay back down in bed once the sweater is on and moves down the bed to change the socks on her feet.  
“I’ll put the red ones on?” Basira asks, showing Daisy the handknit pair she had in hand. They’re from her flat and Basira hopes that whoever made them brings back nice memories. “They look thicker and I don’t want you to be cold overnight again…”  
“You’re fretting too much,” Daisy says.  
“You’re worth fretting over,” Basira reminds her. She unrolls the socks and starts slipping them on Daisy’s feet. “And you’re not getting better…”  
“I’m sorry,” Daisy says.  
“Don’t be sorry,” Basira says. “I’m just saying, maybe we need… I don’t know what we need to do or what we can do, but maybe you need something more.”  
“I’m not going to get better,” Daisy says. She closes her eyes as if to concentrate and winces as she sits up. Basira shoots up and helps her lean back against the headboard.  
“I talked to the Archivist about it,” Daisy says.  
“That can’t be good,” Basira grumbles.  
“I’m weak because I’m not hunting anymore,” Daisy says. “And I’m not going to do it again.”  
“Daisy…” Basira says. Simultaneously, she takes a deep breath to calm down. “We can talk about this in the morning. It’s been a long day, we’re tired…”  
“I’m not tired,” Daisy says.  
“ _I’m_ tired,” Basira snaps back. Immediately she feels bad. Daisy’s tired too. Of _course_ she’s tired.  
Daisy’s smile is pinched but she smiles it anyway.  
“I know you are,” Daisy says. “Because you keep _fretting._ ”  
“Because you’re worth fretting about,” Basira says again.  
“There’s lots I can’t do right now but I’m me enough to know that I’m done with the Hunt,” Daisy says. “No matter what it costs.”  
Basira’s mouth dries up when she opens it. Daisy reaches out and her fingertips brush her cheeks, light as a butterfly. Basira leans in to make it easier on her.  
“I promise,” Daisy says. “You’ll only have me as I am to reckon with now.”  
“You don’t need to promise me anything,” Basira says.  
“No, but I’m going to ask you for a pretty big promise soon, so I should make one too,” Daisy says. “But not today. You’re tired. Come here…”  
“I should…” Basira says.  
“I’m not breakable,” Daisy says insistently. “Come here.”  
Basira hesitates a single second before leaning in and easing her cheek against Daisy’s stomach, nuzzling into her sweatshirt. Daisy wraps her arms around her, weakly but present.

Things don’t seem to matter anymore—it would be silly if they did. But Basira keeps running inventory on herself and on her pack of supplies. She has spare underwear and socks and a change of clothes—not that she’s felt the need to change yet, but when she wants to to keep feeling a little bit human. She brought a canteen of water she hasn’t had to drink from. A pocket knife she’s had to use a few times. She has more matches than she could possibly need. Wads of cash, which seem like the stupidest thing of all. A torch that probably wouldn’t work if she turns it on. Ammunition, a smaller handgun than the one she clutches like a child and its blanket, a toothbrush because she’d once thought she’d need to worry about being clean, and two flares. She’s thankful that she thought of bringing the copy of the Qu’ran that had previously lived on her bedside table.  
And tucked at the very bottom of her bag is more ammo that she’s sworn to herself not to touch, no matter what, until she has found Daisy. Because she will find Daisy and once she does, she will be equipped to do what needs to be done.

“You know how you visited your family in Canada a few years ago?” Daisy says. She tries to sound absent-minded, but she’s recalling such an old anecdote that Basira immediately knows she’s up to something. She’s going to say something she’s thought about how to say for some time now. “You went when it was forest fire season, and a really bad one at that, and so you spent two weeks breathing in smoke and smog?”  
“Yes,” Basira says, jaw clenched. She stops picking at the almond chicken before her. She is just now realizing that the Chinese takeaway Daisy had come home bearing might be a trap to get on Basira’s good side.  
“My favourite part of that story, other than the fact that hearing it meant that you were back and that I could listen to your stories again, was how you described coming home. You said it was like remembering how breathing was supposed to be.”  
“Yes,” Basira repeats. She doesn’t like where Daisy is going with this and puts down her chopsticks, as if she’s about to throw up her hands in a fight.  
“I’m remembering how to breathe,” Daisy says. “And I’m breathing you in. I never want to stop.”  
Basira pushes her food away and runs a hand over her eyes.  
“Daisy…” she stars. She’s had a long day at the archives. She doesn’t want to say it because Daisy has had her own long day, a long year really…  
“Would you want to stop?” Daisy says. She gestures to the Chinese food, to the flat, to them. “This?”  
“We can manage,” Basira says. “I can take you in every shape and colour you come in, Daisy.”  
“I know,” Daisy says. “But I don’t want you to have to. I don’t want to slip away from this and leave you with a breathless version of me.”  
“Isn’t that…” Basira suddenly realizes that she has to wipe at her eyes. “Don’t I get a say in that? Isn’t it better than nothing? We’ve done that before, Daisy. We’ve lived that life.”  
“And could we really go back?” Daisy asks.  
Basira blinks.  
“Not if I know you’re unhappy,” she says meekly.  
“I would be unhappy—or a little part of me breathing inside The Hunt would be unhappy, at least—if I was in a state where I could hurt you,” Daisy said. “And if I go back to The Hunt, I know it won’t be good, love.”  
Basira wipes at her eyes again. Daisy takes her free hand from across the table and squeezes. Weeks ago, when she was just out of The Buried, she wouldn’t have been able to squeeze that hard. That squeeze brings Basira an incredible amount of hope on a regular basis. But she knows it can’t and won’t last.  
“I understand,” Basira says. “But I… I’m not ready to make any promises.”  
“That’s fair,” Daisy says. “But you understand?”  
“I understand,” Basira promises.

_You promised,_ Basira reminds herself, running her fingers over the dots and dashes on her walking stick and shutting her eyes against the world. The trick to reground herself doesn’t work as well as she wants it to. There are shadows and monstrous outlines dancing on the back of her eyelids. And the sounds that reached her ears…  
If she says the words out loud, _You promised,_ they would feel more real and she would feel more real to herself. She had logicked her way out of The Unknowing, she kept reminding herself of that. She can do this. She can do this. She has done so much more. She has done so much worse.  
On the day that the Institute had been attacked, Basira had finally caved. She had finally made that promise. _It was always borrowed time,_ Daisy had said. _Promise me,_ she had said.  
_I promise,_ Basira had replied. And then she’d run like Daisy had told her to run, like she knew she had to run before The Hunt took over.  
And then Daisy had run and Basira didn’t know where she’d gone.  
“You promised,” Basira manages to squeak out. Poison from the nightmare world that was really just her world pours into her mouth and she chokes on it. She forms the words again and spits them back out along with this poison she’s never asked for.  
“You promised,” she reminds herself again.  
Her stomach twists and her heart beats in her throat. These aren’t unfamiliar, but they give Basira an idea.  
In The Unknowing, she had reasoned her way out of it bit by bit. The Stranger liked to be seen but not known; knowing the Stranger made it strange but not Stranger. She had chipped away at it as it chipped away at her and yes, that was a race that she could have lost, but she hadn’t.  
If she were to chip away at the fear around her, she would be left with her own. It would be like standing in the crowd at a concert and realizing that you were singing too, that your voice was part of a dull roar but that you could hear it if you paid attention. And so she does. And she makes sure to pay attention.  
And what she hears is like a tap at a window—tap, tap, tap, tapping at the glass, like a lover throwing stones. And the tapping says  
..-. .. -. -..  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
_Find  
Daisy._  
She is so afraid of failing that her fear suddenly makes sense in and of a senseless world. It doesn’t light up like a path to Daisy, but it is something that Basira can follow.

Here is another moment that Basira thinks of often.  
In it, Daisy’s sitting on the edge of the bridge like a daredevil, straddling it and smoking a cigarette. She is watching the water run underneath the pair of them—her and the bridge, connected under the spring sun in that moment.  
“Oye,” Basira calls out. “Get down from there. There are children watching and you’re being a bad example.”  
Daisy pulls the cigarette out of her mouth and grins from behind her sunglasses.  
“I’m off duty,” Daisy calls back.  
“That doesn’t forgive every sin in the book,” Basira says. She hands Daisy the brown paper bag with her share of their chips.  
“It does make room for all of them, though,” Daisy says. Her smile is crooked but genuine, and she pulls Basira to her and kisses her.  
“If you fall and drag us both down…” Basira warns.  
“I won’t,” Daisy promises.  
“You’re right,” Basira says. She finally stops fretting and smiles back. “Besides, I’d follow you.”

The journey was long, but it probably felt shorter since Basira felt like she finally knew where she was going.  
She circles back to what she thinks must be London, but it’s hard to tell. It feels like London, in the same way that London would feel like London on a topographic map but you wouldn’t be able to confirm that it was London without reading the map. Basira’s effectively blindfolded.  
She wonders if Daisy has been in London this whole time and she was a fool for leaving the city and following all her other hunches. Practically, she thinks, that doesn’t matter and it’s not as if that’s a question she’ll really ever be able to answer. Another part of her thinks that no, she was probably right to follow her gut. Returning to London feels right. She won’t go so far as to call it poetic, but it feels right.  
London is worse than the other places she’s been to, if this really is London. Basira isn’t able to navigate it like she’s navigated the city her whole life, she only has her fear—bright as ever—to follow. It brings her to Daisy.  
Basira has been treading on rooftops and fire escapes as much as possible. Even with the additional risk of plummeting to her death, it seems safer than whatever’s happening on the ground. She makes sure not to look down so that ‘down’ doesn’t swallow her up. She crawls down onto what used to be some poor sod’s porch and looks down at the alleyway she has brought herself to. Her heart beats in her throat as she examines the scene.  
There’s a pack of people rummaging through a bin. They’re fishing out what Basira tells herself aren’t limbs, not because that isn’t what she believes but because if she focuses on it too long she’ll lose her concentration. There’s about five people, Basira suspects that she could get a clean shot at one before triggering an attack that she couldn’t possibly win. Technically, all she needs is one good shot, but she needs to give herself some wiggle room.  
All of a sudden there’s a roar that startles her. She grabs onto the porch railing to ground herself and processes what’s happening below. One of the figures tried to take another’s prize and now there’s a fight. The scorned figure reclaiming its rightful possession roars again and some of the smaller Hunters scramble away to find easier scavenging grounds.  
Basira doesn’t look at the fight below because listening to it is enough. When she’s sure that it’s over, she looks down again.  
It’s Daisy, kicking over her opponent’s body.  
..-. .. -. -..  
-.. .- .. ... -.--  
Well, she’s done it now.  
She loads her pistol and takes aim, breathing in and out through her mouth.  
She fires.  
She misses.  
Daisy looks up at her.  
Basira has never been more afraid. Her own fear offers no guidance now, it simply swirls around her. It may drown her before Daisy has a chance to do whatever it is she’s climbing up to do.  
Basira takes her walking stick and smashes the glass porch door by her. She ditches the stick and runs into the flat, ignoring how the glass shards rain down on her and catch at her clothes. Daisy’s jumping up from the dumpster bin and will reach her shortly.  
The flat she’s in seems abandoned, but Basira doesn’t have time to check more thoroughly as she runs through it and throws the door open. If there is anybody there, hopefully they’ll know well enough to stay hidden or The Hunt will drive its Hunter to Basira and Basira only.  
She looks around quickly and then runs to the elevator door and smashes the buttons. No, that’s stupid, she can’t trust _elevators_ at a time like this—and she can’t afford to lose her visual on Daisy like that.  
Luckily, the door to the staircase is right next to it and so Basira runs into the stairwell. The door behind her slams just as she hears Daisy’s footsteps and snarling catch up to her.  
Basira scrambles down the stairs even faster. Then she hits the landing of the floor below and scrambles in.  
“Daisy, here!” Basira shouts into the stairwell. It echoes. “Daisy, I’m keeping my promise!”  
She shuts the door behind her though the snarling she heard continues to echo in her head.  
Thankfully, this floor’s layout is similar to the one above. She flattens herself against the elevator doors, gun ready.  
When Daisy bursts in through the door, Basira gets her first good look at her. She’s larger. She seems full of life and energy for the first time in months. Auburn hair, matted and choppy—it might not have been taken care of since Basira washed it last. Her eyes are bloodshot, her pupils blown, and they are circled with black rings. Everything about her face is sharp and her mouth seems to have gotten bigger to accommodate all the extra teeth that are there, turning into a jaw, turning Daisy into a predator…  
Basira shoots. She keeps shooting until Daisy goes down in a heap of limbs and tattered clothing. Even when Daisy’s stopped moving, Basira keeps shooting because she doesn’t know how The Hunt or the fears or the world works but she knows she’s kept a promise.  
She kept it well.  
She’s about to turn the gun on herself when she hears a door creak further down the hall.  
“Basira!” someone calls. “Basira, it’s… it’s really you.”  
“God, Basira! Basira, get in here, get in our flat!”  
Basira turns to look and she sees, of all people, Georgie Barker and Melanie King.  
“What are you doing here?” Basira asks. Her voice is raw. She has spoken so little since the world ended.  
“Waiting for the Archivist,” Melanie says. “Against our better fucking judgement, but there isn’t much else to do. What are you..?”  
“Love,” Georgie says. She puts an arm on Melanie’s shoulder. She doesn’t lower her voice and lets Basira hear the words she is saying, which Basira infinitely appreciates. “Love, those were her gunshots and she’s just shot Daisy.”  
Melanie’s face goes pale and her jaw drops.  
“God,” Melanie chokes. “God, Basira, come in then.”  
“I promised,” Basira says.  
“Tell us all about it in here, Basira,” Melanie says, reaching out. Her eyes aren’t focused on Basira, her hands aren’t even reaching out in the right direction to grab onto her. But it’s a hand and it’s… it’s more substantial than anything Basira has seen since the world ended. Anything except her promise.  
“Okay,” Basira says. She lays down her gun and walks down the hall, then she pauses. “We’ll come back for her body, right?”  
“Yes,” Georgie says. “Yes, I promise, Basira.”  
Basira likes promises, and so she agrees.


End file.
